


and you shall receive

by attheborder



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: A Zombie Can Be A Boyfriend, Alternate Universe - Magic, Canonical Character Death, Happy Halloween, M/M, Resurrection, Stealth Crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:02:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26956270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/attheborder/pseuds/attheborder
Summary: “What on Earth is he doing?” Stanley asked.“It seems he may have, ah... imprinted on me, sir,” said Goodsir sheepishly. Gore was now nuzzling at Goodsir’s neck and ear, his golden hair brushing against Goodsir’s whiskers. He smelled not of death but not of life either; more than anything he smelled of the clean sharp air of King William Land, a scent unknown to Goodsir until just this week past.for the One Week Of Terror prompt: "monster"
Relationships: Harry D. S. Goodsir/Lt Graham Gore
Comments: 31
Kudos: 50
Collections: One Week of Terror 2020





	and you shall receive

**Author's Note:**

  * For [havisham](https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/gifts).



> thank you to [reinetta](/users/reinetta) for the beta/britpick!

Understandably he was nervous to try again, after what had happened at Beechey. But the order had been made, and as such Mr. Goodsir had no recourse other than to follow it. 

The ship could tolerate the loss of sick seamen, marines, and ship’s boys well enough—but a first lieutenant, taken in his prime, simply could not be countenanced by command.

He’d not been able to bring all the books with him that he would’ve liked (his library at home had long overflowed into the corridors, spilling down the stairs) but still, between the half-dozen volumes spread out before him on the desk he more or less had what he needed. 

He had wished to be alone for this, but there was no way Dr. Stanley would have let him. In fact now he had the pleasure of a bevy of _Erebus’s_ officers crowding the corners of the sick bay, expressions a farrago of mourning and hope. Le Vesconte was grim-faced, Fitzjames sanguine, Des Voeux sickly eager. 

There was every reason for Goodsir to be confident. Had he not just yesterday saved the life of that poor Eskimaux man, who at this very moment was convalescing on _Erebus’_ s quarterdeck, after his daughter’s urgent insistence that exposure to the cold was needed to bring him back to full strength? 

Yet he trembled as he ran his fingers down the pages of his books, reminding himself of the shape of the theory behind the magic he was about to enact. 

“If you’ll proceed, Mr. Goodsir,” said Sir John. He nodded solemnly at the body laid out on the medical table.

“I—It may not be pleasant,” said Goodsir cautiously, remembering the last time, “for you gentlemen to witness this.”

“I have seen magic done before,” Sir John replied. “You need not worry for my constitution.”

One could well imagine the type of magic Sir John has seen done: proper, well-bred magic, at the Learned Society of London Magicians’ grand new gilded hall near the ‘Change, or perhaps in a parlor in a large country house. Simple spells to awe the gathered gentlemen: animating the patterns on flow blue china, or conjuring up images of loved ones some miles distant in bowls of enchanted water. But nothing of the magic of the body, of the blood.

Goodsir took one last look at his notes, penciled in his neat copperplate in the notebook lying nearby; closed his eyes, and began.

This far from home it was not the magic of England he called upon, though there were jars of earth stacked by the dozen in the hold for such purposes: a technique developed by the magicians of the Admiralty these past decades of the Discovery Service, to provide stability and security to home-grown magic while thousands of miles away from its source. 

But that was his mistake on Beechey, he knew now. It had taken him this long to understand it. Though the men were Englishmen aboard an English ship, they had entered another realm entirely now, with different rules. Gore had died in the North, by the teeth and claws of a creature born in the North, and as such Goodsir must wrench the center of his magical practice away from the shadowy closes of Edinburgh and focus it instead here, in the ice, underneath the aurora. 

He held the spells in his mind, twisting them together. A spell for healing, to knit together the gaping wounds in Lieutenant Gore’s chest—a spell for the restoration of breath—a spell for the generation of blood within veins. He lifted the knife to his hand and brought it down in a smooth slice across his palm; let the blood fall, _drop-drop-drop_ onto Gore’s gashes. 

As with many things, he found fault in himself and himself alone for what had happened to the lieutenant—could he not have performed a spell, instead of standing there and screaming as the creature ripped the man nearly in twain? Naturally it should fall to him now to make it up to Gore—to repair his wrong—to show the man he was no coward, that he was worthy of the title _Doctor_ which Gore had so frequently seen fit to bestow him with. 

There was not a sound in the room, save for the creaking of the ice— 

—and then Gore sat up, and opened his eyes. 

Seeing Goodsir, he broke out into a wide smile. 

Goodsir felt his heart flutter with relief—and joy, for he had not thought to ever see that smile again. Despite himself—despite every self-admonition, every effort—he had grown so unbearably fond of it over these past months; had embarrassed himself on a number occasions when the lieutenant had come to the sick bay for sleeping drops or salve, never quite able to stop himself from babbling on about whatever he thought might impress Gore most. Gore had been quite unreasonably tolerant, even encouraging of such behavior: this, Goodsir regretted, as it had lent him the precise amount of false hope necessary to keep himself from giving up in such a useless, distracting pursuit.

And now Gore was looking all about him, at his friends and fellow officers. He seemed to recognize them. This was good—yes, this was better than John Hartnell, speaking ceaselessly and madly in the tongues of Hell, spasming on the autopsy table and shaking apart as the magic holding him together first failed and then corrupted, rending his weakened body to bloody sludge before their very eyes. 

Gore had been there, in the sick tent, holding Hartnell’s brother back as he sobbed. Was he recalling that horrible night, at this very moment? Did he realize a similar fate had befallen him, or was his mind wiped clean of all memory? 

“Graham,” said Fitzjames, approaching the resurrected officer carefully, yet with clear delight at his restoration. “We are so very grateful to Mr. Goodsir for returning you to us. How are you feeling?” 

He reached out and clapped a companionable hand to Gore’s shoulder. Gore opened his mouth as if to speak, but what came out was a high, happy whine. 

“Indeed, I feel quite the same,” Fitzjames said, with a grin. 

The officers crowded around Gore, prodding him and poking him, which he seemed to take in his stride, nodding agreeably. 

Only Dr. Stanley spared a glance to Goodsir, and of course it was not an approving one. Goodsir knew he deserved no accolades, for this was not the accomplishment he had hoped for: Gore’s skin was an uncanny grey; his tongue seemed quite useless and vestigial, in the context of speech; his wounds had ceased to bleed but had failed to heal completely, lying open to the air. 

The officers, however, did not seem to notice; or perhaps they simply did not mind, so relieved they were to have their friend back with them. 

“Can he eat?” Le Vesconte asked now. 

“In the case of a being sustained by…” Goodsir paused. Le Vesconte was a capable man, but in Goodsir’s estimation an explanation of the magical forces at work would be rather wasted on him. “He likely can consume,” Goodsir finally allowed, “though I do not think he _requires_ it in the way that we do, anymore.” 

“Good enough for me!” exclaimed Le Vesconte.

“Come, Graham. Let us drink to your fine health in the wardroom,” suggested Sir John. 

Gore made an approving chirp and clambered down from the table where he so recently had lain dead. He nearly toppled over, but Fitzjames handled him into uprightness with a firm hand upon his back. 

Shambling out of the sick bay behind the others, he looked back over his shoulder at Goodsir; Goodsir hardly could stop himself from waving a plaintive goodbye. 

***

Dr. Stanley returned from supper in the wardroom with Lieutenant Gore following closely behind. 

If it were any other man one would say he wore a frown, but Goodsir had long learned not to assume anything of the doctor’s mood based merely on his face. However, it soon became clear that Stanley was indeed especially displeased at the moment.

“Mr. Goodsir,” he said stiffly. “Will you please dismiss your… friend. Your berth can be found just down the passageway, Lieutenant Gore.” He directed this last to the lieutenant, pointing a bony finger helpfully towards the door, but Gore had eyes only for Goodsir.

With puppyish delight he approached him, pressed a hand clumsily to the buttons on his chest, running it up and down against them as if delighted with the texture. 

“What on Earth is he doing?” Stanley asked. 

“It seems he may have, ah... imprinted on me, sir,” said Goodsir sheepishly. Gore was now nuzzling at Goodsir’s neck and ear, his golden hair brushing against Goodsir’s whiskers. He smelled not of death but not of life either; more than anything he smelled of the clean sharp air of King William Land, a scent unknown to Goodsir until just this week past. 

The low, pleased rumbles coming up from Gore’s throat seemed to Goodsir like nothing so much as a cat’s purr; the manner in which he had insinuated his form against Goodsir’s was quite distinctly reminiscent of how certain cold-blooded reptiles sought out sources of nearby warmth. 

“I will not have him occupying this sick bay for any longer than is strictly necessary,” Stanley said. “It’s bad enough that the Captain’s infernal monkey has the run of the place. The last thing I need is your monster getting into the antimony or the sulphuric.”

“Come, Lieutenant,” Goodsir said, willing himself not to plant his feet and take up discourse with his superior officer on the insulting nature of the word _monster_. “I will show you to your sleeping-place.” 

  
  


***

Upon reflection Goodsir was not sure if Gore was actually capable of sleep; he worried not without cause that unless precautionary measures were taken, he might wake to hear Gore stumbling about the galley, disturbing the rest of the men, or perhaps scratching at Goodsir’s cabin door at some ungodly hour of the middle watch. 

So, having sat Gore upon his bed and said, with as much authority as he could muster, “Stay here, sir. You must rest now,” with a gentle tap to the lieutenant’s shoulder, avoiding his clear, searching eyes, with some trepidation Goodsir went to set a locking spell upon the door. Trepidation because it was impressed upon him before even stepping foot on the ship the consequences of performing magic unauthorized by command—he was to be an assistant surgeon first, magician a far distant second—and also because he feared that the spell he meant to cast, one to prevent the exit of a human being, might not be effective. 

Yet to set the spell’s second form instead (the one meant for the safekeeping of livestock or household goods) would be akin to an insult, even if Gore had no way of knowing it had been done. 

In the end, he set both. He reasoned that way, no one, even himself, would know which one had worked. 

Returning to the sick bay, Goodsir found Dr. Stanley writing up an account of the day’s events in his surgeon’s log. He resisted the urge to peer over the doctor’s shoulder and assess the account for accuracy—such actions had only ever led to disappointment, usually followed by admonishment.

“How was he at supper, sir?” he asked Stanley, instead. “Lieutenant Gore, I mean.” 

Dr. Stanley did not deign to turn and look at Goodsir as he spoke, but nevertheless he sighed and began a comprehensive overview of the lieutenant’s first meal since returning to the land of the living. “He ate with his fingers, and then only of the meat, nothing of the vegetables or the pudding. The officers found it quite amusing. Eventually Mr. Osmer was called upon to supply some twine, which Lieutenant Le Vesconte used to forcibly attach a spoon to Gore’s hand, and they all had a jolly time watching him attempt to bring it to his mouth. He laughed at Commander Fitzjames’s jokes—a kind of mirthful croak—which seemed to satisfy the Commander; less satisfying was the fact that Gore was so amused by the sound that he continued to emit it, even as the conversation turned to more serious subjects. Eventually I hit upon a solution which was to pass him a bit of gristle from my plate, which the continued intent mastication of prevented further disturbances.” At this memory Stanley allowed himself the faint ghost of a smile. “When he rose to leave at the end of the meal, a bit of his entrails fell from his stomach onto his plate, and I heard Mr. Hoar swallow down a retch. It seemed to be part of his duodenum, if my eyes did not deceive me.”

Dr. Stanley was a doctor of medicine (as he was so fond of reminding Goodsir) and so the clinical detachment with which he regarded such an event, disconnected from all acknowledgement of magic, was to be expected. 

Still, Goodsir wished dearly for guidance—wished for a world in which Dr. Stanley might suddenly expound forth on Ormskirk’s principles of locating, or the elements of Segundian spell notation. But of course there was no advice to be found here, indeed not onboard the ship and certainly not on _Terror_ , where Captain Crozier and his lieutenants were even more skeptical of magic than the officers of _Erebus._

“Magic was not what saved us from colliding with those great icebergs in the Southern Ocean, Mr. Goodsir,” he remembered Crozier saying plainly, on one of those rare nights when Goodsir had been invited alongside Dr. Stanley to take supper in _Terror_ ’s wardroom. “No. No magic in it at all. It was good sailing, and good men, and luck.” 

(He suspected that Crozier’s steward Jopson may have some knowledge of magic, though he could not if asked determine _why_ he harbored such a suspicion, after only a few short and summarily mundane encounters with the man—and in any case even if he were right, the steward’s magic surely would be the domestic sort, spells for cleaning and laundering and suchlike.)

Oh, to be home! To cross the ocean in a second and walk through the doors of the dark-paneled Society Hall, just around the corner from the Royal College of Surgeons, and meet with any number of learned elder magicians, many of whom recalled the return of magic first-hand.

But Goodsir had never been an able scryer; he was too unpracticed at letter-magic to send any words further than _Terror_ , and the idea of accessing the King’s Roads was laughable in its impossibility. Why, to even allow a magician with such facility onto a Royal Navy ship would be unthinkable, akin to admitting weakness. 

There was no way out. In all of the great white nothing, he was alone. 

***

Goodsir woke early, instantly alert. His pocket-watch told him it was just past six A.M.—four bells in the morning watch, his ship-trained mind supplied helpfully. 

He pulled his boots and coat on and made his way down the passageway, across the galley, and up the other side to where the three doors of the Great Cabin, the wardroom, and Lieutenant Gore’s berth formed a crossroads.

Immediately he spied Mr. Bridgens standing before Gore’s door, carrying a basin of water, linens draped over his arm and a shaving kit in hand. Goodsir had the laughable thought that perhaps in future Bridgens’s morning routine will have one less step, given that Gore’s hair and beard are unlikely to still be capable of growth.

Bridgens looked concerned; as Goodsir approached, he understood why. There was a faint mewling coming from behind the locked door of Lieutenant Gore’s cabin, a pathetic and quite lonely sort of noise. 

“It seems to be locked, sir,” said the steward, frowning. “From the inside.” 

“Lieutenant Gore may still be… adjusting to his new condition,” said Goodsir. “I ought to examine him, before you enter. To make sure nothing has changed. Would you mind terribly?”

“Of course not,” said Bridgens, stepping aside. 

With a wave of his hand he unknotted the spells keeping the door locked, and rolled it open. He had a fleeting glimpse of Gore’s face, wearing a gleeful grin—only to be immediately tackled, falling through the open door of the wardroom behind him and landing on the ground, hard. 

Lieutenant Gore was far stronger in un-death than in life. Not bound any longer by the anatomical restrictions of muscle and tendon, powered instead by magic, it is a supernaturally powerful grip that pinned Goodsir to the rug, one hand around Goodsir’s wrist and the other pawing at Goodsir’s face.

“There, there, Lieutenant,” Goodsir wheezed, trying quite unsuccessfully to shift Gore’s bulk off of him. 

Gore had always been a man of boundless enthusiasm and high spirits—jocular and effusive, the kind of brave and shining fellow Goodsir imagined the Discovery Service to be populated with in full, only to find that in truth such men were few and far between.

Now in his resurrected state it seems that propensity had only been magnified. The sounds he made were deeply joyous, a chorus of charming wheezes and croaks, as he ran a hand up Goodsir’s throat, as if to confirm that yes, a pulse still beat there. It seemed that he did not realize that, in his enthusiasm, he was in danger of snuffing the very breath out of Goodsir’s body. 

Goodsir considered, dizzily, that it might not be such a bad way to go; with Gore’s mussed fringe tickling his forehead and Gore’s friendly fingers at his neck.

“Up you come, now, sir,” came a rough and easy voice; Gore was lifted up and off of Goodsir by capable hands, and Goodsir rolled onto his side, then staggered, gasping, to his feet, flattening himself against the far wall of the wardroom. 

“Thank you,” he said shakily, tugging down the front of his uniform jacket. 

“He’s all over you, Mr. Goodsir,” remarked Bridgens, watching now how the now-vertical Gore strained towards Goodsir, held back only by a firm grip on his collar. 

“A side effect of his—recovery,” Goodsir admitted. “I was the first man he saw upon waking. A… connection may have inadvertently formed, I think.”

“Is that so,” mused Bridgens. Gore seemed to have calmed, and so Bridgens cautiously let go; released, Gore shuffled over to Goodsir and, with slightly more restraint, leaned up against him, resting his head on Goodsir’s shoulder. Goodsir patted it tentatively.

“He’s always been fond of you,” Bridgens went on, “but this is something else, now.” 

Had he been? Fond of Goodsir, that is? Surely not—Goodsir would have noticed! It had seemed to him Gore thought of him as all the officers did—useful, perhaps; knowledgeable, certainly; possibly diverting to watch work, like an animal at the zoo, or a confectioner behind a counter. 

Conversely, Goodsir’s feelings towards Gore were quite obvious, he was sure. In fact, he had barely slept that night, tormented as he’d been by thoughts that some observant man might come to suspect that Goodsir’s resurrection of the lieutenant had been flawed, selfish even, at its core—that an order from command had been corrupted by improper personal feelings—

But if Bridgens—one of the most observant men aboard—only saw in Gore’s affect an amplification of something that was there before... 

Goodsir suddenly remembered why he had awoken, why he had dashed over in such a hurry from his own berth in the first place. The thought had been knocked aside—quite literally—but as Gore leaned happily against Goodsir, he noted with a sinking feeling that his fears had been confirmed: the flesh-mending spells had still not fully taken. They were cast correctly (Goodsir had always had an aptitude for healing magic, or at least he had before the expedition, having been summarily forbidden from performing any aboard _Erebus_ ) yet Gore was still suffering from his gruesome injuries. 

Well, perhaps not _suffering._ He certainly didn’t seem to be in any pain. Quite the opposite, in fact: his energy and joy was wholly undaunted by the fact that his guts were hanging half-out. 

“Mr. Bridgens, I apologize for… all this,” Goodsir said, wincing. The thought of inflicting such an unhandsome sight on the innocent steward in the course of his daily duties made his stomach twist in apologetic knots. 

“I’ve seen much worse in my day,” Bridgens said with a smile. “There’s no need to spare my stomach. You tell me what is to be done, sir, and I will do it. Whatever might make the lieutenant more comfortable.”

Not for the first time on this voyage, Goodsir had reason to be grateful for the steward’s kindness and generosity. “Thank you,” he said. “I shall return in just a moment—I will work up some enspelled bandages in the sick bay. That might do for now—yes—please, excuse me.” 

Bridgens guided Gore back inside his berth. “There, now, sir. Let’s get you into a clean shirt before Mr. Goodsir returns, shall we?” Goodsir heard, as he hurried off. 

It was much to Goodsir’s regret that Bridgens knew very little of magic—being of an older generation, he had already been in the Navy for many years by the time of the Restoration. 

Perhaps Goodsir might lend the man some of his books. It would be a great help, if Bridgens could learn some of the basics of magical theory. Goodsir would not have considered himself a teacher (what reserves of patience and attentiveness he had often seemed only to be reserved for himself, or for his specimens) but maybe Bridgens, a North Englishman himself, would take to it the way he took to his Shakespeare and Spinoza. 

For now Goodsir returned to the sick bay, and, using a recipe from Pevensey, worked up a potion of dried ivy and sparrow-bone. When he reached the end of the spell, however, it still seemed somehow unfinished. 

On a whim, he summoned Chambers, and had him fetch some ice from outside. When Goodsir dropped it into the basin, the ice simmered blue and then flared a bright gold as it melted. The colors, in their cheerful vibrancy, made him think of the Lieutenant. 

***

It might have been that command’s opinion of Goodsir was so low as to make any restoration a success, as long as it improved upon the fiasco at Beechey. 

More likely it was that their opinion was low of magic itself—it had accomplished little on the expedition so far, besides identifying a problem with the tinned foods while they were still fitting out at Deptford—and so proof that it could accomplish something as desperately wished for as Gore’s return was enough to truly exceed their expectations. 

Goodsir ought to have been happy. He _was_ happy. Lieutenant Gore was not gone; he saw more of him than ever, in fact, and he had only his own abilities to thank for such a gift. 

Still, shame followed quickly and frequently on the heels of delight: should someone see the joy he took in Gore’s attachment to him, the way he utterly failed to discourage the Lieutenant’s newfound tendency to follow him about the ship like a duckling, he might be blamed—even accused—it didn’t bear thinking about.

But by the week’s end, Goodsir had ceased to worry entirely—for it had become abundantly clear that as far as command was concerned, Gore’s performance as first lieutenant was as top-class as ever.

In fact, there was much to be said for this new Graham Gore. He made himself more than useful around the ship: now stronger by an order of magnitude than any man aboard, even the burliest of ABs, he singlehandedly hauled barrels of provisions up from the orlop; re-sheeted the heavy sailcloth covering of the quarterdeck as if it were bolts of light linen. 

When the Eskimaux man and his daughter returned to _Erebus_ bearing the gift of two enormous freshly killed seals, Gore (having anticipated their arrival, pacing about the quarterdeck, pointing out onto the ice and making excited noises, long before Collins spotted them approaching through the spyglass) vaulted the gunwale in a single lumbering leap, landed feet-first on the ice, and hefted one seal easily on each shoulder. As he carried them back up the ramp to the deck, he received a round of applause from the men on watch. 

Yet problems still did arise. 

There was his diet: though Goodsir still suspected he did not _require_ sustenance in his state, per se, Gore was capable of consuming a constant supply of meat. The food could be spared; it was only Goodsir who talked Mr. Wall down from his fury by proposing an alternate solution. In the end Sir John was quite pleased at the effectiveness of Lieutenant Gore as rat-catcher and disposer thereof, and Fagin was able to comfortably retire to his destined position as frequent occupant of Sir John’s lap. 

There was the matter of his attachment to Goodsir, and all the habits that accompanied it: hiding under the table in the mate’s mess so that he could associate freely with Goodsir’s ankles during supper; insisting, through a series of grunts, that Goodsir was to accompany him on his watches on deck, even—perhaps especially—when Dr. Stanley required him to assist in another dull bleeding or cauterization.

And there was his unintelligibility: devoid of speech yet as chatty as ever, Gore’s range of cries and groans had become an orchestral accompaniment to the creak of the ship in the ice, day in and day out. Goodsir came to find it rather harmonious, though he knew not everyone felt that way. 

“Mr. Goodsir,” Commander Fitzjames said one day. “If I may ask—how is it that you always seem to understand what he means? I cannot make heads nor tails of his moanings, no matter how I try.” 

Goodsir felt himself blush. He really hadn’t noticed that he had any more success with such matters than any of the other officers. “I suppose I could… work up a dictionary, of some sort, if that would answer?” 

Fitzjames shook his head. “I wouldn’t want to trouble you with such an undertaking.” He thumbed at his chin, then fixed Goodsir with a kindly look. “It would be simpler, I think, for you to translate as you go. If Dr. Stanley can spare you, we are holding a command meeting today at noon. Why don’t you sit besides Graham and see if you can’t help him get his meaning across?” 

It was interesting, sitting in on command meetings. Goodsir had thought, perhaps, that they might be similar in nature to the sedate meetings of the curatorial board of the Surgeon’s Hall, either the chaotic enthusiasm of the Society’s monthly conventions. 

In point of fact it was neither. The meeting—with all of Erebus’s officers sans Le Vesconte, the officer of the watch, and plus Captain Crozier and Mr. Blanky from _Terror—_ was horribly tense, fraught with layers of Naval tradition and rank that Goodsir had little reference for. The way the men spoke to each other, all that disregard cloaked in a thick layer of deference, set his stomach uneasy in a way no amount of tea could resolve. 

It was only the reliable, trusted presence of Lieutenant Gore at his side that soothed him; and the performance of the duty he was called there to do.

Far more attuned to the ice now than any of the men on the expedition, including Mr. Reid and Mr. Blanky, Gore was insistent on certain aspects of their summer and fall plans.

“What the lieutenant means to say is, I believe,” Goodsir said, after a drawn out groan from Gore, “is that should the ice free us any later than the first of August, it will be far too dangerous to push any further west, and we should head north and retrace our steps towards Lancaster Sound.” 

“Couldn’t have put it better myself,” said Crozier, thumbing at the rim of his glass. “Now that I have been backed up by not only your ice-master and mine, but by your trusted first lieutenant, Fitzjames, would you agree that we cannot risk our final push for the passage until summer next, if even then?” 

Fitzjames looked to Gore, who blinked back at him with those sparkling eyes, set in that grey face that Goodsir had come to find so lovely. 

“Yes,” Fitzjames said at length. “I agree. If Sir John wishes it so.” 

Sir John opened his mouth to speak (very possibly to obstinately continue denying such a course of action) but Gore interrupted him, letting loose an insistent, demanding noise.

Goodsir cleared his throat. He did not wish to anger the expedition’s leader, but Commander Fitzjames had entrusted him with a responsibility, which he aims to rise to. “Gr—Lieutenant Gore wishes to make it known that should we disregard this recommendation, what happened to him might well happen to every man at this table.” 

All eyes rested on Sir John. He worked his mouth, glanced sidelong at Fitzjames, and at last let out a sigh. “Very well,” he said. “We shall renew our efforts west come spring, after a winter spent comfortably closer to land.” 

Gore let out a triumphant hoot, and to avoid dissolving into relieved laughter, Goodsir quickly reached for a biscuit set on the dish in front of him. 

*** 

That night, after hours spent compounding heroic doses of purgatives (thanks to a bout of blockage making its way through the fo’c’sle) Goodsir clean forgot to set the customary locking spells on Gore’s door before retiring to his own berth. 

He liked it when his dreams were crowded: memories of Edinburgh, London; vast museums thronging with people, impossible exhibits, display cases full to bursting with beautiful creatures; infinite stacks of books forming endless mazes, all waiting for him to explore. 

But at some point in the night, it was always as if his soul remembered where he was, and the dreams would change. 

It was not the cold he feared, for he grew used to it many months past. It was the emptiness that the cold lived in, the vast solitude of the ice, that invaded his sleep now: the howling tundra, the unbroken blasted shale. He had known something horrible was going to happen to Graham; had shouted after him, uselessly; the distance between them had grown and grown, a yawning abyss of grey… 

Suddenly he felt that emptiness shrink, draw into itself—something is taking its place. Something solid and familiar. 

Muzzily, he lifted his head, trying to see through the low light emanating from the illuminator above. A dark shape loomed above him where he lay. 

“Lieutenant Gore?” 

There was a low noise Goodsir recognized as Gore’s _hello,_ and the introduction of a heavy hand to Goodsir’s shoulder. Goodsir could not explain the tactile tendency so prominent in Gore’s resurrected state—an intricacy of the spell-work he was not advanced enough in his studies to understand—but he had come to treasure it, all the same. 

“You really shouldn’t be here,” said Goodsir, but without much feeling to it. 

Gore fit himself easily into the space besides Goodsir: a space Goodsir had hardly realized existed, in his small bed. But here was the lieutenant, now, perfectly shaped to it. He was hardly warm; in fact, he was quite cold, like a large mobile boulder—but possibly the most comfortable boulder that ever lived. 

He slung a casual arm over Goodsir’s side; drew himself as close as possible, and let out a series of satisfied little sighs. 

Goodsir allowed himself to relax into the touch. When he slept again, his dreams were the opposite of empty. 

The next night, he refrained from setting the locks again. He felt that they had outlived their usefulness. 

***

There was the sound of a wretched howling—a sliding door slamming—boots stampeding on the deck—shouting—and then Mr. Des Voeux came hurtling in through the sick bay door, his hand clutching the side of his head, thick rivulets of blood oozing through his fingers and splattering on the shoulder of his uniform jacket. 

Stanley was up before Goodsir could stand, guiding Des Voeux to a chair and motioning for Goodsir to continue attending to Mr. Weekes, whose boil Goodsir was busy draining.

Des Voeux was shouting: “He bit my bloody ear off! Oh, Christ—oh, fuck—”

“He hardly bit it _off,_ Mr. Des Voeux,” said Stanley dryly, examining the wound, or at least attempting to, for Des Voeux’s overdramatic writhing kept his head twisting this way and that. “That would imply a complete separation, yet I can clearly see that it’s hanging on, by at least a half-inch of cartilage. You’re overreacting.” 

“Overreacting? I’ve been _disfigured!”_

“Your good looks remain quite unmarred, I assure you.” 

“My good—oh, you think you’re so funny, I really ought to—”

Stanley’s glare, directed with scalpel-like precision, stopped that thought in its place, and Des Voeux was reduced to huffing under his breath as Stanley retrieved supplies to mend the wound.

“Never trust a magician, that’s what they say. I’ve heard what they get up to, in their societies. Bunch of lunatic druids. He probably commanded the Lieutenant to do it. Set him on me like his bloody pet! Christ, it _hurts!_ ” 

“Mr. Des Voeux, you know very well that the lieutenant has a mind of his own, just like any man, despite his… debility,” says Stanley. “If he bit you—” 

“He _did!”_

“—then it was, quite simply, because he wanted to.” 

Goodsir did not quite have time to comprehend what seemed, unbelievably, to have been a defense of himself given in good faith by Dr. Stanley, because Gore had appeared at the door, looking uncharacteristically sour. 

“Get him away from me!” cried Des Voeux, clapping a hand over his other ear in terror, and Goodsir hastily got to his feet in time to prevent Gore from having another go. 

“I’ll be back in just a moment, Mr. Weekes, you just keep your foot right there… now, let’s come over here, yes, that’s it.” Goodsir guided Gore gently to the bench in what Goodsir had made his office, the far corner of the sick bay where his microscope and specimen cabinet lived.

“Listen, Lieutenant Gore.” Gore made a wounded, whining sound. Goodsir looked over to see if Stanley or Des Voeux were listening in, but they were ensconced in their own bilious battle of words, sniping back and forth as Stanley attended to his stitch-work, sewing Des Voeux’s ear back on with a needle that looked just a size or two too big for the job. 

“Graham,” Goodsir said, the name tender and perhaps more familiar on his tongue than it ought to have been. “You cannot go around—biting people’s ears off. It is simply not done, in the Navy, unless there is some statute I’m unaware of.” 

Gore frowned; made a noise that indicated something along the lines of _he deserved it, though._ Goodsir shook his head. “Oh, surely not. What could he have possibly done to deserve it?” 

A wave of the hand, a wordless mutter. 

“Me? What did he say about me?” 

Another grunt. 

“Well,” said Goodsir with a soft laugh, “you must allow for differences in opinion, amongst the officers. Mr. Des Voeux has little patience for those who do not fit his ideal—I suppose that is what makes him such an effective Navy man, capable of enforcing the highest of standards… And I am not a Navy man—far from it, I think.” 

Gore pressed his fingers emphatically to Goodsir’s chest. He was telling him, in his way, that Goodsir belonged on this expedition just as much as he did. 

“Thank you,” Goodsir said. 

Gore’s next utterance indicated that should such a situation arise again, he would certainly not refrain from further escalation. 

Goodsir snuck another look at Des Voeux, whose murderous aspect seemed to have been tempered somewhat by Stanley’s attentions; he had ceased to stare daggers in Gore’s direction, at the very least, though that may have been temporary. 

“I wish you wouldn’t,” said Goodsir, “but I suppose I cannot stop you if you do. After all, I don’t control you, do I?” He could not help but lay a hand atop Gore’s, and squeeze it tightly. In return Gore offered a conspiratorial smile. He leaned in, and pressed his forehead to Goodsir’s. It was cool and solid; a friendly edifice. Goodsir could only indulge his desire to remain like that for so long (there were patients waiting), but he went about his business afterwards with a happy mood that refused to fade until long into the afternoon watch.

***

“Mr. Goodsir—come quick,” said Bridgens. Goodsir had never seen the man so frightened. He fetched his coat and hat and dashed up the companionway, emerging into the bitter cold, already knowing what he would see.

“I found him like this,” Fitzjames said, crouching over Gore’s supine form. His normally confident expression was gone, replaced with vulnerable concern. Staring up at Goodsir helplessly he looked so very young. 

“What is going on here?” Sir John said, striding aft from the busy quarterdeck. “Oh, good lord—Graham—is he all right, Mr. Goodsir?” 

Men were gathering now around the stricken lieutenant, pausing in their duties—they had spent the last week mending ropes and sewing new sails, leaping into action as soon as the ice had begun to show signs of melting, on the very day Gore had predicted it would.

Careless of his impoliteness, Goodsir practically shoved Fitzjames out of the way in order to kneel at Gore’s side, a hand hovering fearfully above his face. His eyes had gone dull and unseeing—his preserved skin was peppered now with blooms of unhealthy green—from beneath his slops, Goodsir could smell the scent of decay, rising into the air. 

“Graham,” he said. Gore was silent—no friendly chirps or rumbles—and that was the worst omen of them all.

“Mr. Goodsir, what is the matter?” asked Sir John from above him. Goodsir had forgotten the Captain was there. 

“It’s the ice,” said Goodsir. “He was—animated by it. The way I performed the resurrection… and now that it’s melting…” 

“The life-lines have unbraided,” he heard Bridgens say softly. Goodsir would have spared a proud look towards him, but he was unwilling to take his eyes off of Lieutenant Gore. 

He could not deny it any longer. It was only ever a temporary solution. Without making a deal with a fairy-servant (something he had no means to do, let alone the desire) he could only ever provide an approximation of life. Not the truth of it. He loved magic dearly, and would for all his days, but he was no master. Not yet; perhaps not ever. He had done his best, but his best was not enough.

Silence reigned on deck. Nobody spoke. 

Then the ice creaked, loudly—there was a splash, as the ship slipped further into the meltwater—and Gore seized up, contorting as the _Erebus_ pitched, his eyes rolling back into his head, his teeth grinding together. 

It was a horrible sight, and Goodsir was glad when it was over. 

Up from Gore’s corpse (for that was what it was, now, again) rose a soft translucent mist, which swirled about in the clean cold air. It was the aurora in miniature—blue and purple and green, bleeding into each other, a heavenly display. 

Goodsir thought, _It’s his soul._

He did not know if it was a spell he had cast unconsciously, or some delayed effect of the initial resurrection; some unknown magical factor of the landscape, perhaps, or even a property of the great claw which had dealt the initial fatal injury.

There would be time, later, to write down all that had occurred—to collate his extensive notes, assemble them into something resembling a narrative, spot the connections he’d missed. Something to present to the Society when he returned—something that might earn him respect or even acclaim.

But here on the crowded upper deck of _Erebus_ he could not think of the future, of the shape this story might one day take, because the soul-mist was assembling now, taking on solid form, growing denser and more recognizable, until at last—

There he was. 

Lieutenant Gore, as Goodsir knew him before he brought him back—golden and resplendent. No wounds, no bandages; pink-faced and breathing, suffused with human vitality. He wore his dress uniform and its epaulettes glittered in the late summer light. He was slightly translucent (the mainmast was visible behind him, through the outline of his form) yet still solid, in all the ways that mattered. 

It was perhaps an unwise impulse—but despite what Mr. Des Voeux and the other officers may have thought, Goodsir was no pushover, no coward. If this was to be goodbye, he wanted to say it on his own terms—and so he would, damn them all. 

He bit down on the inside of his cheek, hard, drawing blood; with that blood he inked a sigil on the surface of the deck, and whispered a few carefully-chosen words. 

When he looked up, getting to his feet, it was to see snowflakes frozen in the air, arrested in their chaotic falls. About him, the officers and men were all likewise stilled, mid-whisper, mid-gasp. 

Before him, Gore still moved. He held a hand up to the sky, admiring the way the light fell through it, scattering into the colors of the North, and then turned his gaze on Goodsir. 

“Dr. Goodsir,” said the lieutenant. Goodsir did not correct him. “I believe this is where we must part. It has been quite the adventure, wouldn’t you say?” 

“I’m sorry,” Goodsir cried out. He could not help himself—his eyes brimmed with tears. “Perhaps it would have been better had I not tried. If I had let you rest. But I wanted…” 

“You? Not trying?” Gore said, disbelieving. “There will never be a day, Doctor, when such a thing is possible!” He stepped forward, his boots not quite touching the deck, until he was mere inches from Goodsir. “You, sir, will always try.”

A rush of confidence filled Goodsir. “Yes! I—I could try again,” he said, “I could revise the spell, use a different combination, perhaps travel to his camp to consult with the Esquimaux man—!” 

“Everything must end,” said Gore simply. “Men most of all.” 

“I know,” said Goodsir, subsiding. He did know. He had performed on twenty bodies. Each one had a life, a story. But none of them were Graham Gore. 

“You have brought me joy,” said Gore. “Much more than a dead man usually is privy too. For that, Doctor, I am grateful.” 

“And you,” said Goodsir, “you have brought me—oh, so much. So very much.” It hardly seemed to encompass his feelings, but his head felt swollen with grief and remorse and deep, deep affection, and he could not think of anything else to say. 

Gore reached out, and Goodsir thought he meant to shake his hand—politely, like gentlemen—but when their fingers touched, Gore pulled him in close, wrapped an arm around him, and kissed him. 

His kiss was so familiar Goodsir could not believe that it was new to him. He must have done this before. Perhaps in his dreams, or in another life. It was the easiest thing; the loveliest thing. He worried he was too eager, at first; but Gore was just as ardent, and soon Goodsir had lost all his reserve. It went on for a very long time—and yet, not nearly long enough. 

When Goodsir opened his eyes, he expected Gore to be gone, to have scattered at last into the Arctic air. 

But he was still there. Beaming at Goodsir, he enveloped him in one final enthusiastic embrace. 

“Travel well, Dr. Goodsir,” he said. “And thank you. May we meet again.” 

He strode over his own dead body towards the gunwale, not looking back. With athletic grace he went over the side, down towards what remained of the ice, and disappeared out of sight.

The time-spell wore off, and suddenly Fitzjames was barking orders, Sir John was passing word for Dr. Stanley, Mr. Collins was ordering his men back up into the rigging to continue their work. Nobody seemed to notice Goodsir leaning on the taffrail, looking out upon the floes; except for Mr. Bridgens, who appeared at Goodsir’s side, following his gaze out to the south, towards King William Land. 

“Do you see something?” he asked. “Is he out there?” 

“No,” said Goodsir. He smiled, and looked over at Bridgens, aware he was quite the sight, lips bitten red from the kiss of a dead man, a few tears frozen in shining lines down his cheeks. “No, not anymore.” 

  
  
  


***

**Author's Note:**

> i ask you to consider the effusive letter goodsir receives shortly after the publication of this narrative in a respected journal of magic, postmarked J. Segundus, Starecross Hall, and how he nearly collapses of happiness on the spot. the end
> 
> i'm on [tumblr](http://areyougonnabe.tumblr.com) and [twitter!](http://twitter.com/areyougonnabe)


End file.
